


The Strangest Witch Hunt

by ashitanoyuki



Series: Bobby Singer Drinks With Father Figures [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Bar, Drinking, Friendship, Gen, Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby Singer took this hunt because he owed old John Winchester a favor, but Sirius Black was not the notoriously evil witch he had been led to expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strangest Witch Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> I need Bobby Singer drinking with basically everyone's father figures. I was going to write Bobby and Iroh (Avatar: The Last Airbender) next, but Sirius was adamant that he get to share a drink with Bobby. I'm not at all confident with Sirius's voice in this, but it could be worse I suppose.
> 
> I'm experimenting with a new writing program and have not figured out the dashes yet, so those are a bit... Iffy. Bleh. Ah well...

It was without a doubt the strangest witch hunt Bobby Singer had ever found himself undertaking. But John Winchester had called in a favor, the bastard, and that's how Bobby found himself slumped in an old bar in Portland, beer tilted absently in his hand as he tried not to stare at the stranger across the room.

Most witches dressed to blend in with ordinary folk. Bobby couldn't say the same about this guy. Scraggly black hair hung limply to his shoulders, tangling with his rough beard. A tattered black cloak hung from his wasted frame, casting an unnatural palor upon his pale, wasted face. If the man had been fifteen years younger, Bobby would have pegged him as some goth wannabe. All the signs pointed to the man, however--weak signs though they were. There had been only a few strange deaths in the area, none of which screamed "witch"; the man's tendency to slip through the shadows unseen could have been written off as the habits of a particularly practiced recluse. Winchester was adamant that this was their guy, however; Sirius Black, a wanted felon from England, hiding out in good ol' Uncle Sam's shadowy underworld. The information on Black's tendencies overseas was solid enough to pin him as a witch, and a prolific murderer at that. Winchester had insisted that if Black was in the United States, it was only a matter of time before he started up some nasty, supernatural murders on their side of the Atlantic.

Bobby tried not to start as Black rose, setting his cup down quietly on the table. He held his breath as the prolific murderer made his way towards Bobby's table. Balls. Stealth was never his strong suit--the witch was onto him.

Bobby attempted to steady his breath and act natural as his quarry pulled out a chair and sat down directly across from him, bright eyes narrowed, staring intensely. "You've been watching me," Black commented, his voice hard and rough--the voice of a man haunted by years of prison and running. Bobby would have known the type even without the thick file Winchester had slipped him before he agreed to take the job. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

Bobby grunted, busying himself with his beer. Black might be a powerful witch, to have committed murder on the scale he had in England, but Bobby knew he had caught the man off guard. Unless Black had a hex bag powerful enough to take out the entire bar, he was probably safe for the time being. "Don't know what you mean by that," he said casually, setting down his beer.

"Of course not," Black said tightly, eyes darting around nervously. "If you're an auror, the American ministry's well ahead of Britain at blending in with muggles."

"That some sort of code?" Bobby asked, raising an eyebrow at the man.

Some of the tension seemed to bleed out of Black's shoulders; he relaxed slightly, sinking back into his chair. "No, I guess if you were an auror you'd have come after me already," he said quietly. "Still, you've been watching me, and I doubt it's because you're thinking about buying me a drink."

"Clever," Bobby replied dryly. "You're right about that." Would it be wise to confront Black directly? If the man knew that Bobby was onto him, it might be best to get things out in the open, where there were too many witnesses for Black to take out directly. "You're right, I've been watching you, and it ain't because I'm looking to buy you a drink and get friendly."

Black raised an eyebrow. "So you're not an auror, and you're not looking to socialize. I'm stumped, so I guess I'll just ask."

"Why I'm watching you?" Bobby snorted and picked up his beer, tilting the bottle absently. "Sure you don't already know that?"

Black chuckled. "If I were still in Britain, I could take a guess," he remarked, crossing his arms.

"What, because the Brits know about your penchant for killin' off innocent folk for your jollies?" Bobby asked, eyes not leaving the man as he took a long drink from his bottle.

Black's eyes flashed as they darted around the bar, cataloguing every door, every window, every possible escape route. Good. However powerful Black might be, he wasn't comfortable blowing the entire bar to Hell. "Yeah, I know about that," Bobby said conversationally, draining his beer and setting it down. "Not many people on this side of the pond know about it, but I do. I'd be a pretty poor hunter otherwise."

"Hunter?" From the blank look on Black's face, he was unfamiliar with the term. Now that, Bobby had not expected--enough time in the UK, he knew that the Brits used the same word for their good old supernatural exterminators. "Last time I checked, I'm not a deer. That was--" he broke off, a flash of sorrow crossing what must have once been handsome features.

"Pretty naive, then. I wasn't expecting that." Bobby folded his arms, glaring at Black. "So now what? Whatever creepy mojo you've got up your sleeve, it's clearly not enough to take out the whole joint, or you'd have done it already. Me, I ain't gonna be able to pull anything on you in front of all these civilians. But I think you know I can't just let you walk away scott free--not with the rep you've got."

Black sighed, leaning forward. "I don't suppose you'll believe me when I tell you that I didn't kill those people," he said quietly, one hand wandering towards his pocket.

"Hands up here," Bobby snapped, reaching for his own gun. "I don't want to waste you in front of all these people, but I'm sure as hell not letting you pull some stunt that'd probably get half the place blown up."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Black reached into his pocket, withdrawing a long, carved wooden stick. Bobby had heard of witches working with wands before, but they couldn't do a damn thing without all the other herbs and bowls and acoutrements of witchcraft--at least, he'd never heard of it. Then again, Black was notorious for a reason. "So you're out to kill me, then."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "For someone of you're reputation, you're really not familiar with how this works," he remarked.

"You might be right." Black offered him a tight lipped smile. "I never had much opportunity to interact with muggles, growing up. The shame my friendships with muggleborns brought my mother was more than enough."

That word again--muggle. Bobby would have to look into that, see if he could figure out what the hell it meant. "You kill anyone in the US?" he asked warily, running his thumb over the barrel of his gun.

A short bark of laughter slipped from Black's lips. "Like I said, I never killed anyone. I don't expect you to believe me, but it's true."

"Sure you didn't," Bobby replied agreeably. "Those folk blew themselves up. That's witch's work no matter how you smell it."

Black's lips tightened angrily. "It was a wizard all right, but it wasn't me," he said coolly. "He used to be my friend. But he--well." Black shook his head, grimacing. "Got my best friend killed, pinned it on me and blew up the street. Got me twelve years in Azkaban, and it'd have been more if I hadn't gotten out. Now I'm here, licking my wounds and trying to figure out how to keep Harry safe from halfway across the world."

"Harry?" If Black had friends, that was something to take note of. The last thing Bobby needed was an influx of witches seeking revenge for their dead compatriot. Better to get all the info now, in case they came after him.

"My godson," Black said, his voice strangely wistful. "James's son. And no, despite all the propaganda in the _Prophet_ , I don't want him dead. Harry is--well, he's all I have left of James. With Pettigrew loose, it's only a matter of time before the Death Eaters rally again, and put him in real danger. But here I am with who knows how many galleons on my head, and until he gets back to Hogwarts he's defenseless with those muggle relatives of his."

It was like listening to half a conversation, in a foreign language to boot. "I don't know about muggles and Hogwarts and whatever else that means," Bobby said finally. "All I know is you're a witch with a reputation for killing people, and I'm not just going to sit by and let you keep on with it."

"A witch, is it?" Black's lips turned up slightly. "Last time I checked I was still a wizard. Transfiguration hasn't gone that far in recent years, from what I understand."

Bobby snorted. "Witch, wizard, it's all the same to me. Using your creepy magic to terrorize innocent folk--doesn't matter what you call it."

"Despite my parental goals for me, I've never used magic for terror." Black traced a fingertip idly over his wand. "Fighting terror, yes. If my mother hadn't already disowned me, I'm sure Christmas dinners would have been full of lots of speeches about the shame I brought to the family when I sided against Voldemort."

Voldemort. Something else to look up, if he got away from this with his skin intact. Fly-from-death, if Bobby was remembering his French right. "I never heard of a witch using their powers for anything but personal gain," he said coldly, fixing Black with a hard glare. Something seemed genuine about the man, but everyone knew that witchcraft was inherently evil. The one time Bobby had encountered a so-called white witch, the woman had only been biding her time until she could amass a large enough collection of foster kids to pull off some ritual to drag several demons from Hell. That was an incident he did not like remembering.

"Then you've only heard snippets. Never hear of Dumbledore? Of Merlin?"

"Merlin?" Bobby snorted. "Yeah, when I was a kid reading King Arthur stories."

Black chuckled. "Merlin was very real," he replied easily. "Even children know that. Well, wizarding children--I suppose it makes sense that he faded to a fairy tale in the minds of muggles. Statue of Secrecy, and all that."

"So, let's say I believe you." Bobby leaned forward on his elbows, staring intently at Black. "You've got nothing but diamonds and roses shining out your ass, and you just want to do good for the peons of the world. Britain seems to think you're a mass murderer, but you're some sort of good witch--sorry, wizard--who'd never hurt a fly. What are you doing here?"

"I wouldn't say I'd never hurt a fly." Black shrugged. "If I get my hands on Pettigrew, he's going to wish he'd never met me. But like you said, I'm wanted in Britain. I can't keep Harry safe from Azkaban, especially if they sic dementors on me for the kiss." His gaze softened. "Above all else, I need to keep Harry safe."

"That's your godson?" He didn't want to sympathize with Black, but the affection the man clearly held towards his godson was all too familiar to Bobby.

"That's right." Black fixed him with steady eyes. "Do you have children?"

Bobby shook his head. "I'd wind up like my old man, no doubt," he replied regretfully. "But I've got two boys who are as good as sons." Sam and Dean--what he wouldn't give to keep them safe, even if their daddy was hell-bent in raising them as hunters.

"Then you understand where I'm coming from." Black sighed regretfully. "I'd love to go after Pettigrew, to clear my name and get some revenge, but if I'm focused on that, then I'm not focused on Harry. He comes first."

And hell, how could Bobby fail to understand that? "Call me crazy, but I think I believe you. On that much, at least," he said, settling back in his seat. "I know what it's like to want to keep your family safe. I've got a proposition for you, Black."

Black raised an eyebrow at him. Bobby's lips twitched in a slight smile. "I'm not gonna kill you, so long as you get out of the country and find somewhere else to hide. 'Course, I find out that you're killing anywhere else, I'll spring for a plane ticket, hunt you down, and turn you into goo. You go hide out in Switzerland, for all I care, and keep an eye on your godson from there. Long as you're not in America, I've got no business going after you. Got that?"

Black paused, seeming to mull it over. "I suppose I can look out for Harry as well from any other country," he said finally, nodding. "It's a deal, Mr..."

"Singer," Bobby said firmly. "Bobby Singer. I don't do titles and honorifics."

"In that case, I'd appreciate it if you called me Sirius," Black said, smiling slightly.

"Good." Bobby returned the smile, raising a hand to flag down one of the waiters that wandered through the bar, serving drinks and greasy food to the other patrons. "In that case, I'll buy you a drink before you hit the road."

Black--Sirius--chuckled. "So much for you not buying me a drink," he jibed, relaxing fully for perhaps the first time.

They made their way through several beers, exchanging stories about their boys. Bobby told Sirius about Sam's recent and haphazard foray into his school's drama club, and Dean's triumph in finally learning to spout off Latin without tripping over every other word. He wasn't sure that he could believe Sirius's tale about Harry traveling back in time to spring him from a fate worse than death on some half horse, half bird, but hell, who was he to talk about impossible?

He must have had more to drink than he had thought, because there was no way Sirius could have vanished simply by spinning in a circle, nothing but a loud crack signaling his exit. Still, as long as the man was somewhere else, he wasn't Bobby's problem any more. Bobby made a note to drop John a line telling him the job was done. Maybe it was a bit of a lie, but hell, who said Winchester needed to know any different?


End file.
